


Words of the Beloved

by ZodiacRiver



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, Kissing, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 09:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17221169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZodiacRiver/pseuds/ZodiacRiver
Summary: “Words are people,” Sara pulled back and whispered to Mila’s ear. “And you are my favorite word.”





	Words of the Beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownedcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcirce/gifts).



> MILASARA IS GOOD!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> This is for the milasara gift exchange! I'm so sorry that it's really short; I had no time making it longer because 1. Brain stop 2. I have some other projects to handle ><
> 
> But I really hope my giftee doesn't think it's too disappointing, especially with my default poetic-ish writing style.

“Have you ever wondered,” Sara said, her voice caught in her throat like a hum, each syllable broken into quietness that dissolved into the still air, where it flew outside the window and landed on the North Star. It was sickly sweet and left a bitter aftertaste—but still enchanting for Mila. “What poets feel when they pen down pretty words on a paper? Do you think they feel pain for giving birth to their own thoughts into the world so recklessly?”

Mila stayed silent for a moment. Not because she didn’t want to answer, but because she couldn’t quite comprehend what Sara meant. Was she drunk? Mila knew all too well that she wasn’t. They’ve been together the entire day, setting up the Christmas tree and eating a somehow-failed Christmas dinner, and their flutes were kept clean and away in the kitchen cabinet. 

She turned her head to look at Sara. Her hair was a pool of brown on the white sheet of the pillow and her eyes were another story; a mesmerizing tale of love, the tawny color of it almost mauled by the darkness, but was thankfully saved to glitter under whatever lighting in the bedroom (the desk lamp, Mila’s phone, and maybe, the moonlight. But Mila thought it would be unrealistic, though poetic, because the moon wasn’t so bright tonight).

“Why do you want to know?” Mila asked back. At the question, Sara stretched her hand, reaching out to nothing. All the time, Mila tried to read her body language, but Sara stopped herself, freezing like a statue. She blinked, once, twice, then her eyes snapped closed again. Slowly, she brought her hand down, and it made Mila wonder more about what was going on in Sara’s head rather than about the answer to her question.

Sara had always been a dreamer. Like a butterfly in trance, her mind was always all over the place; scattered in fragments and pieces of memories. Mila admired this side of hers. It was eccentric, in an attractive, curious way. But of course, coming from a dreamer, her questions were always ridiculously difficult. 

“Because poems are dangerous,” Sara elaborated. “And vulnerable at the same time. Have you ever felt that way? Like you’re a poem. Imagine. You are made of fragile words weaved together into a string of—how do I say it—ah, abomination. I think poetry is a lethal weapon. Enough to disarm hundreds, enough to wound thousands. Words are like that. Pretty little things, but actually are vomited by demons from Hell. As heartfelt as words are, say, proclamations of love—they are still like the buzz in your ears when you are caught in absolute silence. Threatening. Get what I mean?”

“Sara,” Mila laughed. “You are drunk.”

“I’m not,” she finally looked at her. Sara was smiling. A sincere smile on her lips, and an even more earnest curve in her eyes. “I just feel like talking. It’s my way of showing that I like this. I like this so much. I like being with you.”

Carefully, Sara lifted herself up with her elbow. She hovered above Mila, her hair veiling on either side of her face. Mila couldn’t help but look into those brown, brown eyes, and found that the world belonged there. They gazed at each other for a while—Sara’s hand holding Mila’s cheeks, Mila’s fingers trying to tangle with hers, eyes on one another intimately, and then Sara leaned down to kiss her, soft on the mouth.

Mila savored the moment. She kissed back, in an equally slow manner. Sara tasted like nothing, unlike what they would mention in books—not tingles of lightning, not sweets, not even hope. She tasted just like Sara, what she was, who she was, and that was all. The entirety of her was kept in those lips, and the way her eyes sometimes fluttered open, then closed again in a mere second.

“Words are people,” Sara pulled back and whispered to Mila’s ear. “And you are my favorite word.”


End file.
